


Glenmorangie

by momoejaku



Series: drunk!Jason [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alfie hugs away the tears, Alfred to the rescue, Gen, Jason gets sad and sentimental when he drinks whisky, i want to live in the pub from Alfie's memories, jason will be ok his family is there for him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-14 23:52:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momoejaku/pseuds/momoejaku
Summary: Based onthis set of headcanonsI posted on tumblr about the different types of drunk!Jason





	

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for alcohol/drunkenness, and suicidal ideation.

 

Alfred stood in front of the doorstep of the unsavoury-looking bar for longer than was necessary, his coat wrapped tightly around him in an attempt to ward off the nippy late-night Gotham air. Neon lights flashed in a blinding red across his vision, rubbish and broken bottles scattered about the entrance, the sound of drunken revelries floating by him as a large group stumbled outside. Alfred followed them with his eyes as they passed, frowning. 

Not in a judgemental way. Merely… disapproving. 

Turning back to the door, he sighed, as if even having to look at the place was a burden. One would think he was lamenting the very existence of venues that served alcoholic drinks, but in reality he was simply lamenting the existence of this particular one. 

In fact, to Alfred Pennyworth, the existence of most of the bars in Gotham City was an abomination, as his mind would too often wander to the cosy countryside pubs he remembered from his younger days in England. Roaring fires, hearty, intellectual conversation over pints of beer, quiet, enigmatic strangers reading a book in the corner, the bartender smiling as a rather tipsy chat carried on about this year’s harvest or local politics. 

But there was nothing to it. He had to go in.

Alfred grimaced as he took a hold of the sticky door handle, and immediately regretted not bringing his gloves. But he had left in a rush as this was a semi-emergency. Truthfully, he didn’t actually know what this was. But he was about to find out.

Warily, he pulled the door open and stepped into the dim, musty bar. 

There were a few stragglers left, nursing their midnight bottles of beer— the quite frankly revolting American substitute anyhow— and occasionally yelling and gesturing wildly at the television screen, which was broadcasting two teams of grown men, charging into one another as if fighting for the last biscuit at tea time. 

That is, the football. 

He allowed himself to take in the sights and putrid smells of sweat and stale beer for only a moment, before turning and walking towards the row of booths to his right, searching them. He drew to a stop as he reached the last booth and observed the quiet figure that sat there, hands cupped around a small glass, staring at the dirty table dejectedly. 

Alfred let out another sigh. ‘Master Jason…’ he said.

Jason looked up at him, revealing red, tired eyes that had seen too much pain and sorrow for so young a man. Alfred felt his heart break, tugged in too many different directions at the same time, the pressure building until his shoulders sagged under its weight. 

Jason smiled. As sad, small smile. Timid, like he was that twelve-year-old boy again, reluctantly stepping into the manor for the first time. 

‘Alfie… you came.’

Alfred took off his coat and set it down beside him as he slid into the seat opposite Jason, holding his gaze calmly. 

‘Of course I did. You called me and said you were _dying_ , Master Jason.’ 

Alfred’s voice broke slightly as the words came out, pressed out like coffee, bitter to the taste. He had dropped his tea when Jason had spoken those words over the phone, the painted china cup shattering into a thousand pieces across the kitchen floor. It was still there. He had left it and rushed to come here, nearly sick with worry, unsure what to expect. But now, he understood. He nodded at the amber liquid in the tumbler. 

‘Scotch… I presume?’

A smile quirked at the corner of Jason’s lips. ‘You and Bruce raised me didn’t you? I may hate myself, but I don’t hate myself enough to drink bourbon. Not yet anyways…’

He carried off, growing quiet as he sloshed the remaining whisky around absent-mindedly. Alfred noted the slight trembling of his hands and dug his own fingers into his thighs. He struggled to keep an impassive face, untainted by emotions, in spite of his many years studying the dramatic arts.

‘May I?’ he asked finally, gesturing at the whisky. 

Jason looked up at him, startled, slightly confused, then pushed the glass over to him, leaving a trail of condensation across the wooden table. 

Alfred took it in his thin, weathered hand, and allowed himself a moment to take in the delicate aroma before bringing the glass to his lips. He welcomed the smooth, warming sensation that ran down is throat after the cold. The initial sweetness of the highland malt evolved into bitter heather and oak as he looked back up at Jason and set the glass down. He raised an eyebrow. 

‘Glenfiddich. 12 year old. A good, affordable choice.’

‘I couldn’t buy enough of the top-notch stuff to get drunk, so I settled. But it’s not a bad one.’

Alfred nodded. ‘Not bad at all. I may even prefer it to some of the other so-called, “top-notch” brands… but I digress.’

Jason said nothing for one long beat, the silence stretching out between them even as Alfred set the glass back over on his side of the table. The shouts of the football fans rose in volume, a wave crashing down on the quiet before it lulled, the morose sea settling once again.

‘My whole life has been a digression,’ he finally mumbled.

The butler let out a tired breath, resisting the urge to rub the side of his head in an attempt to stave of the migraine that was closing in on him. ‘What in heavens name do you mean by that, Master Jason.’

Jason opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, questioning everything, suddenly growing afraid even though this was Alfred sitting in front of him. 

He had thought he could never be afraid of Alfred, but that was a lie. In many ways, Jason was more afraid of Alfred than he was of anyone else in the world. He was afraid of how easily Alfred was able to cut into his heart and pull out the tumours that were wreaking havoc upon it, leeching off of his energy and thoughts and emotions. How easily he was able to tell with only a glance what was going on in Jason’s mind. How easily the words that flowed from him seemed to always bring him to the brink, to break him, to heal him. 

He was afraid of how well Alfred knew him. Of how much Alfred cared for him. How deeply he loved him. 

‘My whole life… has been about me going off the beaten path, and getting lost,’ Jason started, his voice shaky, hesitant. Fighting with himself even as the dark, melancholy cloud settled in on his soul, coiling itself around his brain in tight knots and tangles. ‘Running off to live in the streets. Stealing tires and becoming Robin. Dying on the job… hell I—I couldn’t even stay _dead._ ’ He ran a hand through his black hair, resting an elbow against the table and hiding his eyes as he continued. ‘Trying to come back to Gotham to fix things but only making it worse. I keep fucking up. I can’t do anything right. Only bringing pain to myself and everyone I touch. Everyone. Alfie.’ 

Jason’s voice rose in emotion and volume as he emphasised the last two words, his gaze holding Alfred’s in a pleading call for help, but only for a split-second of weakness. 

Bitterness and defeat consumed his deep eyes like ink spilled in water. He turned away, scowling, and downed the last of the whisky in one go, even as Alfred sat there, watching him intently.

‘I—I’m just a waste of space. My life is pointless. Every breath. There’s no meaning to it. I should have stayed dead. I should have never existed in the first place.’

They were rushed, delirious sentences. Strung out and slurred across a loose, drunken tongue that was close to breaking. 

But Alfred heard every word. Latched on to every syllable. Felt the burning sensation run through his ears like a cheap whiskey who was trying to trick himself into believing it was on the same level as an aged scotch. 

Except Alfred knew. With Jason, it was the other way around. 

The elder man stood without a word and walked away, leaving Jason to his self-deprecating thoughts. He walked up to the bar, paving his way through the noisy rabble as they muttered about their team’s low score, and lay a hand down on the bar. 

‘One 15-year-old Glenmorangie, if you please.’

The bartender raised an eyebrow as if Alfred was speaking in code, and turned to go into one of the back rooms. He returned with bottle of golden whisky. It was almost empty, and Alfred smiled as it was poured out into a tumbler.

His intuition had served him right. If this seedy Crime Alley bar was serving the likes of Glenfiddich, it could only mean a certain someone frequented it occasionally and ensured it was well-stocked. 

If not for himself, then for his son.

The bartender set the glass down in front of Alfred before turning away pointedly, knowingly. The butler took the glass and walked back through the dim yellow lights to where Jason was, now slumped back against the wooden side of the booth seat, one leg stretched out on the seat, the other knee drawn up. He stared at the glass of whisky when Alfred placed it in front of him.

‘A Glenmorangie should never compare himself to a Jim Beam,’ Alfred said, his tone weighted, serious.

Jason’s chest moved as he inhaled and exhaled sharply, sitting up reaching for the glass as if it pained him. But he took a drink from it nonetheless.

Alfred watched the spasms cross his face as Jason broke down, and knew exactly what aftertastes were dancing across his tongue. A burst of honey… overtaken by the deep smokey taste of charcoal and oak, the finish dragging out like a long musical note of caramel and rich toffee, laced with spice. 

Whisky spilled over the rim as Jason dropped the glass back down to the table, hiding his head in his hands. Sobs wracked his body, violent, his chest heaving from the unbridled emotions he was no longer hiding, no longer holding back from himself. 

And again, Alfred stood. 

A firm hand reached around Jason’s shoulders and gently brought his head to rest against the butler’s chest. Tears flowing down ruddy cheeks, his mouth half open, trying to talk, trying to apologise, but Alfred shushed him calmly and held him there. He stroked the boy’s hair, murmuring gentle words to him. Soft words drowned out by the other men sat around the bar. 

But their intended recipient heard them clear as the moon on a clear night.

‘Your life has meaning. It has purpose, even when you can’t see it. And I am beyond proud of you for persevering through it all. For pressing onward when all you want to do is lie down and give up. 

P' For that, Master Jason, is what makes you so strong. Your unshakeable courage and stubborn relentlessness. The way you stand up against the world and its cruelty every, single, day. I hope that one day I can be as brave as you.’

* * *

It was closing time, and there were still two people left in the bar, even after the bartender had wiped down the tables, clanged glasses together loudly as he collected them, mopped the floor, and switched the sign in the window from “open” to “closed.” It was as if he were invisible, as if they were the only ones in the whole world as they sat there, unmoving, completely oblivious to anything else that was going on around them.

He didn’t have the heart to ask them to leave. So instead, the bartender resorted to sitting in the back, giving them some privacy as the elderly gentleman who had ordered the Glenmorangie continued to speak quietly to the younger one, the sobs subsiding slowly, but surely.


End file.
